


International Woman of Mystery

by thehoyden



Category: due South
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But what were you supposed to say when Canadian women were making like James Bond in a London alley?</p>
            </blockquote>





	International Woman of Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> For DS Flashfiction's "Anywhere But Here" challenge.

Without a doubt, Frannie was having the best time of her life.

When the time came to decide how to take her first real paid week of vacation, she decided she wanted to go somewhere. As in, needing-a-passport somewhere. She'd never even been out of the country before. So she wheedled and pleaded and eventually scammed her brother out of his frequent flyer miles, which he couldn't use, and which she suspected were sort of illegally gotten, anyway.

So, she was casually walking down a street of fantastically expensive shops in London, _minding her own business_ (truthfully, checking herself out in the window every chance she got - because she hadn't been sure about the whole knee-high boots and skirt thing, but was rapidly concluding that it had been a good choice), when somebody fell into step beside her. Frannie caught a glimpse of white coat out of the corner of her eye, before she was pushed neatly into an alley.

Now, she might be in London, but Francesca Vecchio was a Chicago girl, born and bred, and she could use mace and kick people in the nether regions with the best of them. She was already fumbling for the zipper of her purse when a warm body pressed her into the wall and hissed, "Quiet!"

It was then that Frannie realized that her mugger wasn't a man. Unless, of course, he was given to wearing falsies.

When she opened her eyes to get a good look at her attacker (because she was going to have to report this, dammit, and if she got her traveler's checks stolen on her first day out of the country, there was going to be hell to pay), she squeaked in surprise. "Thatch-"

Thatcher, resplendent in a long white overcoat and suit that looked like half a year of Frannie's salary, clapped a hand over Frannie's mouth. "Terribly sorry, Ms. Vecchio, but do shut up for half a minute," she said in a low voice.

Mystified, Frannie nodded her head and Thatcher removed her hand. Frannie's lipstick was guaranteed not to smudge or wipe off for twelve hours, but she wasn't sure if she believed that.

Thatcher was fiddling with something in an inner pocket of her coat. "Do you, by any chance, have a pair of tweezers on you?" she asked, without looking up.

Frannie unzipped her purse and felt around the bottom, before drawing out a pair.

"Excellent," Thatcher commended her, taking the tweezers from Frannie's hand and applying them to something that looked like some sort of space-age watch.

It wasn't altogether lost on Frannie that Thatcher still had her pressed up against a wall, one knee between Frannie's thighs. But what were you supposed to say when Canadian women were making like James Bond in a London alley?

Frannie was pretty sure that James Bond had never had such a perfect manicure. Acrylic nails, unless she missed her guess, but Frannie had an instinct about these things.

"What I wouldn't give for a blow torch," Thatcher muttered.

Frannie dug into her purse again.

"Should I ask why you have a crème brûlée torch on your person?" Thatcher asked, looking a little startled for once as Frannie wordlessly pressed it into her hand.

"Long story," Frannie said.

Thatcher nodded sharply, shook the canister, and carefully ran the lit torch along the ends of the watch-thing. Then she turned off the torch and shoved it back in Frannie's purse, before tucking the watch in her white coat. "Thank you, Ms. Vecchio. You've been of enormous service to your country," Thatcher said. "Well, to Canada. Your country is rather incidental," she amended.

Frannie nodded like she understood. "Can I ask a question?"

"I might not answer," Thatcher said, drawing out a phone.

"Why are we standing like this?" Frannie asked, shifting her hips slightly for emphasis.

Thatcher gave her a cool smile, one that screamed power and ambition and a shocking little bit of hunger that made Frannie's hands tremble. "Nearly forgot," Thatcher murmured, and captured Frannie's lips with a kiss.

Frannie always thought that kissing a woman would be like kissing her sister, maybe. Or like those sleepovers when she was twelve where you practiced kissing other girls in the hope that you would get it right when a guy finally kissed you.

Thatcher kissed like an international woman of mystery, intent and subtly dangerous. When she deepened the kiss and her hand slid up the back of Frannie's thigh, Frannie thought she heard one of them moan, just a bit.

Thatcher drew back a little, so that her lips were close to Frannie's ear. "I have to go."

"Why did you do that?" Frannie whispered back, feeling a little dazed. "Cover?"

"Yes," Thatcher whispered back. "Well. I should tell you that the boots and the skirt were a good choice."

"Thanks," Frannie said.

"You're welcome," Thatcher said. "Is my make-up smudged?"

"It's fine," Frannie assured her. "Am I...will I see you again?"

Thatcher smoothed her coat and then fixed Frannie's collar, before leaning in again. "I'll see _you_."

It was only after Thatcher left the alley that Frannie realized that the unspoken end to that sentence might have been, "But you won't see me."

On the other hand, maybe Frannie ought to invest in some new sleepwear. You never knew who was going to drop by on the sly, in the middle of the night.


End file.
